


The Unbearable Fineness of Lestrade

by second_skin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Jealousy, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 14:04:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>John pursues a relationship with Lestrade. Sherlock interferes.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>This was betaed with a ridiculous amount of patience by fengirl88.</em>
  <br/>
  <em><b>Warning: </b> Dubious Consent in Ch. 2. This is a weak fic in about a dozen ways, and someday I'll rewrite it completely. Written long ago, but I'm a completist, so I think I have to archive it along with everything else. It reflects a lot of unresolved, angsty issues related to John and Lestrade; a phase when I was not very sympathetic towards Sherlock and saw him as possessive and manipulative; and a gloomy attitude about threesomes. I think I've evolved since then. I hope. It also lacks the minimum daily requirement of fluff. I assume this is because Mycroft is apparently in another hemisphere.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John and Lestrade

Lestrade looked at John. Looked a little too intensely at him as they chatted about trivialities while eating their sandwiches at a cafe near the surgery.

John felt completely undone by that look, and he loved it and hated it at the same time. Today it was difficult to reach into his usual bottomless reservoir of control and discipline. _Those brown eyes. They're just bloody traps_ , thought John. He could fall right in and lose consciousness, lose his sense of direction in the world. Lestrade's forehead, eyes, and mouth could so easily become all John's compass points. To say nothing of the man's chin and the gentle curves, the perfect geometry of his cheeks. Those had been the things John had noticed when he met Lestrade in the midst of that first crime scene. The DI's shamefully perfect square chin and smooth cheeks, begging to be kissed. They were fucking begging him, before he and John had even been properly introduced.

How, John wondered, had he ended up lunching in this cafe and being thoroughly undone by Lestrade's face? He was usually so very careful about these inappropriate obsessions. He had never let things get this out of hand before. As Harry always said, John was nothing if not disciplined. She accused him of having the same tendency toward addiction and overwrought passions that she and their father had. And she was right. But John had spent his whole life creating systems, sturdy barriers to keep the obsessive parts of his personality in check. He went to medical school because it harnessed and focused his mind, leaving little room for anything else, and he joined the army in part because the rigid discipline and harsh conditions did the same.

As far as lovers--well, that was difficult, wasn't it? He'd had plenty of perfectly okay straight and gay relationships. Pleasant, easy, occasionally a bit romantic even. But he also had the others. The wake-up-every-night-in-a- cold-sweat-thinking-you'll-die-or-kill-someone-if-you-have-to-go-one-more-day-without-fucking-this-person kind.

At Bart's his body and mind thrummed compulsively for his very straight, very married professor of hematology. In the army it was his first commanding officer ( completely taboo). And now it was Lestrade, whom John had defined as out of bounds because he had no idea what Lestrade's real relationship with Sherlock was, and more to the point,  John also had no idea what his own relationship with Sherlock was. He refused to risk the partnership with Sherlock--fast becoming the most important thing in his life--and he was more than a little afraid to find out if Sherlock was in love with Lestrade. There was, or had been, something between them--he was almost sure.

Was it possible for Sherlock to be in love with anyone but himself? Not likely, but . . . if he were, then John Watson would be in a different, far deeper circle of hell.

To be honest, John did sort of know what his own relationship with Sherlock was. They had a brilliant time working cases together, and John was coming to admire and love Sherlock, much as he had loved his brothers in arms in Afghanistan. Even more, really. They had fallen into sex as a way of extending their celebrations when they successfully completed a case. The ritual was nice enough. Chinese food. Fortune cookies. A quick fuck. Off to their separate beds. All very efficient and precise. Minimal kissing. Obviously, no cuddling. Perhaps a bit too much running commentary from Sherlock for John's taste, but still. . .  It was fine. It really was all fine.

But then there was Lestrade. Always hovering in the background, feeding John's obsession with a glimpse of mussed hair or the curve of his belt at his waist, or the tentative way he clicked his pen and scribbled in a notebook. John could not look away and no detail was too small to adore and memorize.

So John began doing with Lestrade what had worked in the past: He cordoned him off in a small corner of his mind and kept his distance in real life. So now, it was Tuesday noon, one of five designated hours during the week (Monday-Friday, 12-1) when John officially, on schedule, fantasized about Lestrade. Then jerked off in his consulting room at the surgery or if necessary, in another secluded spot. Lestrade obsession was also allowed when John was alone in bed, of course. As in virtually every night. This kept John's passions in check all the other hours of the day.

But today as he walked through the park near the surgery to enjoy his mental Lestrade orgy in peace, he was startled by a wide smile and wave. Greg Lestrade himself was interrupting John's fantasy Lestrade time, and it was damned annoying.

The DI invited John to lunch, and John could not think of an excuse to decline. So now here they sat in the cafe, eating sandwiches and talking about nothing. John was pleased that he was able to carry on a fairly normal conversation, and thought he just might make it through without embarrassing himself, until he felt Lestrade's left foot move. The DI's foot was now resting gently on top of John's, sending John's pulse racing.

 _It's just a foot_ , John told himself. _No. Not even a foot. It is a shoe. A cheap brown shoe. This is no cause for panic_. It's a simple matter of Lestrade paying no attention to his limbs. There's nothing more going on. John dived deep into that reservoir of discipline now. He clutched his cup and sipped his water to try to cool the waves of heat engulfing his body. He took a last bite of his sandwich.

Lestrade stopped chatting about the new computer system being installed at the Yard and watched John silently for a moment. He held John's gaze and reached across the table, using his thumb to wipe a small bit of sauce from the corner of John's mouth. Then, eyes still fixed on John's, Lestrade licked his thumb, and dragged it across his lips.

As a physician, John understood that a spontaneous male orgasm--without any physical stimulation--was a rare occurrence indeed. Yet as he stared at Lestrade's mouth, telling himself he had to keep breathing, just keep breathing, John also knew that he was in danger of coming at any moment. If he shifted even an inch in his chair, it might all be over.

John was starting to suspect that this was actually a dream, a new addition to his repertoire of fantasies, not real at all.

"You know what?" asked Lestrade, as he stood and dropped a generous tip on the table for the waitress.

John wanted to say "What?" He really did. He opened his mouth to speak, but realized he had forgotten how to formulate words. Had forgotten how to move a thought from his brain to his throat and out of his mouth. He suspected that his erection was draining more blood and vital humors from his brain than it really ought. Instead of speaking, he managed to nod his head and raise his eyebrows, trying to c onvey "What?" as best he could.

"I've never seen where you work. Would you have time to show me around a bit before your afternoon appointments start?" Lestrade was smiling again, putting his coat on, and trying to get John moving toward the door.

John pressed his fingernails as hard as he could into the palms of his hands, willing himself to come out of this mini Lestrade-induced coma and speak. "Em. Yes, in fact, I think that might be all right. You're welcome to have a look. Not much to see, I'm afraid."

"I'm sure I'll find plenty of interest," said Lestrade with a wink.

John swallowed more water and carefully rose from the table, trying to hold his coat in front of him and then pull it on quickly so as not to expose all the cafe patrons to what was going on in his trousers.

Keeping his coat buttoned up despite the warmth of the waiting room, John introduced Lestrade to the surgery staff. The receptionists and several patients of both sexes seemed to size up Lestrade with obvious appreciation. John blushed a little, ashamed that he'd thought for a moment-- _That's right, folks. He's with me. Jealous?_ John and Lestrade walked back to John's small consulting room. Sarah followed the two men in, updating John on recent glitches in their digital record system.

Lestrade asked if Sarah wouldn't mind letting the receptionist know that he and John needed to have a meeting and shouldn't be disturbed for a little while. Important police business. Sarah looked impressed at the phrase "police business," and put her finger to her lips to assure the two men she would make sure they were not disturbed. She closed the door behind her as she left, and Lestrade immediately reached over to lock it.

"Let's get on with this important business," growled the D.I. as he wrapped his arms around John. A barrage of gentle, warm, open-mouth kisses teased John's tongue. Then Lestrade's hands were cradling John's face and his mouth was pressing harder and demanding more.

John was done with trying to figure out if this was real or a dream. If it was a dream, he was going to make it the best damn Lestrade dream he had ever had. And if it was real, then he was going to keep the promise he had made to himself that if he ever actually got the chance, he would be the best fuck of Lestrade's life.

A jolt of adrenalin gave John the strength to shove Lestrade against a long empty table near the door and pull off his suit jacket. The DI pushed back at first, pressing John against the door and pinning his arms above his head, kissing him hungrily. Lestrade clearly did not want to let John take over the dominant role, but John needed to be in control, needed to make this happen the way he had envisioned it so many times. Despite his shorter stature he gained some leverage and pressed Lestrade down onto the table, stretched out on his back. In an agile leap, John straddled Lestrade, making swift work of tearing open his white shirt to get to his neck and chest. Now he was on top biting, sucking, and scratching. Feeling almost delirious.

Lestrade decided to give in and relaxed into the friendly attack his body was under. He slowed John down, silently guiding him to a lighter touch and then caressed John's face again, weaving his fingers through John's short hair. Lestrade began to pant and groan more audibly as John rocked his hips forward and back, setting up an intense friction against Lestrade's cock, still trapped in his trousers. Lestrade kept one hand in John's hair and tried to bring the other down to undo John's flies, but John grabbed Lestrade's wrist tightly and pinned it to the table.

"Not yet," John whispered. He was not going to let what he was convinced was one chance-of-a-lifetime with this man turn into a five-minute mutual jerk-off.

John now pulled off his own shirt and t-shirt and then pulled off Lestrade's, planting moist staccato kisses on the DI's neck and licking across his collarbone. An involuntary moan of delight as John moved his hands down Lestrade's chest and torso. Lestrade was muscular and the hair on his chest was still dark. But he was softening just a little around the waist, and John found this softness incredibly arousing. He couldn't help but make comparisons.

Lestrade's body seemed so real, so earthy, compared to Sherlock's pale, otherworldly form. Lestrade smelled of sweat and soap and tasted of a hint of cumin and the bitter ale he had downed at lunch. I could swallow him whole, thought John, as he tongued Lestrade's nipples and then moved down the center of his abdomen. His hands trembled slightly as he began to undo Lestrade's brown leather belt.

Lestrade arched his back, grinding his erection harder against John's. "Jesus, John. . . Please . . ." Cupping one hand around the back of John's neck, Lestrade pulled him back to his lips and pressed his tongue deep.

John began to suck and wrap his tongue around Lestrade's  tongue exactly as he wanted to play with his cock. Lestrade was breathing hard now, as if he were running a race for his life. He suddenly freed the arm that John had trapped against the table and grabbed John's belt, making quick work of unbuckling it and pulling open the button and zipper of John's trousers, reaching into his boxers.

Good god, what was Lestrade doing with his hand now? Squeezing and spreading pre-come the length of John's heavy dick.

"No. No, dammit," John almost whimpered. He wanted this to last hours, but now he was . . . he was . . . he was . . . fuck! He let out a half-tortured, half-exultant gasp as he pulsed thick webs of white over Lestrade's stomach. Panting, John choked out, "Sorry. Shit. I didn't want to . . ."

But Lestrade shut him up with another wet kiss and pushed his hands up to knead and claw at John's back. Lestrade's voice was rasping as he whispered close in John's ear, "It doesn't matter. I've been wanting to do that for months, you know." His breaths were shallow and desperate. "Couldn't wait another minute . . . I just couldn't wait."

Lestrade's hard-on still pressed against John as they kissed and twisted awkwardly, stuck together with semen and sweat. John pulled away and said in mock anger, between kisses and bites at Lestrade's lips, " fucked up my whole plan, you sodding idiot. Come over here." John led Lestrade to a chair in the corner, laughing as he tugged Lestrade's shoes and socks off, then pulled his trousers and briefs down and off in one quick move. John pushed Lestrade to sit down and then positioned himself on the floor between the DI's knees.

This was something John had done in his mind a hundred times, and Lestrade responded to the well-rehearsed repertoire with groans of pleasure and approving tugs at John's hair John swallowed Lestrade's cock down almost to the base and squeezed his lips tight as he slid his mouth up and swirled his tongue around and under the tip. He repeated the move over and over, adding strokes of his fingers around Lestrade's balls and up and down his thighs. John's pressure and suction became more intense, and he brought his hands up to Lestrade's hips and then around his arse, pulling Lestrade's whole body forward and taking his cock deep, to the back of his throat.

"Now . . . I'm . . . Christ! Now . . ." warned Lestrade and John braced himself to swallow the pulses of warm, bitter come, listening to Lestrade's tremulous moans and feeling the man's hands moving helplessly, trying not to come completely undone. And failing.

John laid his head on one of Lestrade's knees, using one finger to trace around a long, faded scar on the D.I.'s thigh. Trying not to think about anything except whether he could make it his life's work to inventory every scar and hair on Lestrade's body.

Finally regaining his breath and composure, Lestrade looked down at John and touched his cheek, grinning mischievously. "Same time tomorrow, then? Sherlock said he thought noon was about right."

There were many words John thought he should try to say just then. More than a few questions he should ask. Ask Lestrade. Ask his bloody flatmate. But again, he had lost the ability to speak. And his reservoir of discipline and control had drained away completely. So he simply climbed onto Lestrade and kissed him.

He broke away for a moment when he heard the tapping at the door and Sarah's voice asking, "Everything okay in there?"

"Everything's fine," said John, whispering into Lestrade's mouth, and wrapping his thighs around Lestrade's hips.

_Things could not be more fine._

  
  



	2. John and Lestrade and Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Lestrade is really not interested in sharing John with Sherlock. John doesn't seem to know what he wants._   
>  _**Warning:** Dubious Consent. By my usual standards of fluffy romance, Sherlock is pretty horrid in this chapter, and John's not much better. I apologize for that._

Lestrade felt someone step behind him as he sat in the faded armchair at 221B. Hands massaged his scalp and fluttered through his hair, pulling it up into a mass of silver strands pointing in every direction.

"John?"

"Wrong!" said Sherlock. Lestrade could hear a little huff of triumph in his voice. "You've got three out of seven so far. Not doing so well tonight, Lestrade."

Lestrade shifted slightly in the chair. The handcuffs chafed against his wrists, which were trapped awkwardly behind his back. The blindfold still felt fine. He was sure John had chosen that--dark blue silk, folded over a couple of times and tied not too tightly. Lestrade also was sure Sherlock had chosen the handcuffs that were too small.

How did he get into this position for the third time? Participating in a childish game he had sworn he would not be talked into again.

Ever since Sherlock had helped bring John and Lestrade together (And John definitely did not think it was funny when Lestrade said  Sherlock had "pimped John out"), Sherlock had been expressing annoyance that John was no longer available for the quick and cheery little fucks they had previously enjoyed. Sherlock saw no reason that the more traditional path Lestrade and John were on (dinner dates, sometimes sleeping in the same bed, speaking to each other in a civil manner, all that nonsense) should preclude the occasional detour for John into Sherlock's trousers or the occasional visit from Sherlock's cock to John's arse. What was the problem with that, Sherlock demanded. Lestrade was just being selfish and ungrateful.

And Sherlock was being a thick-skulled prick, as Lestrade explained in several heated arguments. Lestrade hated that Sherlock still laid claim to John in that way, and he truly hated the fact that John remained neutral in these ongoing arguments, like bloody Switzerland. Clearly, some part of John (and Lestrade knew exactly which part ) still wanted to have those little celebratory playtimes with Sherlock. But Lestrade was having none of it.

Nor was Lestrade joining any goddamn threesomes, as he insisted on several occasions when both Sherlock and John suggested that as a compromise.

"That is not a fucking compromise!" barked Lestrade. "I don't think you two have any understanding of human relationships anymore. I do not want to watch my boyfriend and the world's most pompous, narcissistic bastard fucking each other. I'd have to stab my eyes out afterward!"

And that was that. For about a week.

Until Sherlock succeeded one night in getting both Lestrade and John drunk as they congratulated themselves on a commendation from the Prime Minister (Mycroft's manicured hand at work, thought Lestrade) for solving another serial murder case.

This game Sherlock invented was simple. Lestrade would be blindfolded and handcuffed and would have to identify whether it was John or Sherlock touching him. If Lestrade got more than 5 of 10 challenges right, he went home with John. But if he got five or fewer, John would stay with Sherlock for the night. Lestrade described the game as barbaric. Sherlock thought it supremely logical and loads of fun. John just shrugged and smiled. Lestrade had to keep reminding himself that John was a danger junkie, wasn't he? Maybe that's what he was after with this nonsense--maybe it wasn't all about Sherlock?

Well, why not then? Even half drunk and blindfolded, this should be a piece of cake, thought Lestrade. They smelled different, they tasted different, their hands were completely different. How could he possibly lose?

Lestrade won the first game easily, then went back to his flat and had furiously angry sex with John, who claimed that he knew all along Sherlock would never win the game anyway. But seemed strangely pleased that Lestrade was trying to punish him for playing along.

Lestrade came close to losing the second game because Sherlock adopted the strategy of using John's brand of shampoo and soap, removing Lestrade's sense of smell from the equation. Lestrade slept on the sofa and didn't speak to John for two days.

So now the third game was underway. Lestrade and John had had a little too much to drink again, and Lestrade was almost definitely losing, and getting more and more irritated each minute.

Lestrade felt hands--short fingers he thought--removing his shoe and sock and rubbing one of his feet.

"John."

"Right!" said John, dropping a kiss on Lestrade's head. "Four out of eight!"

But Lestrade quickly lost the last two rounds, unable to tell that it was Sherlock tracing his pinky finger around Lestrade's ear, and also Sherlock kissing the back of Lestrade's neck.

Sherlock was elated and smug. John refused to say anything, busying himself instead by clearing up plates and wine bottles in the kitchen.

Lestrade heard Sherlock walk toward the window. Undoubtedly the genius was gloating, and enjoying Lestrade's rage. "You know, Lestrade, it doesn't have to be John who stays her tonight. There was a time . . ."

"Don't." Lestrade spat out the word. Sherlock was about to pry open an old box of troubles, which would surely lead to a very long night for all three of them. That box needed to stay closed.

John walked back into the room, and Sherlock remained silent.

"Greg, do you want anything else to drink? Some water or tea, maybe?" asked John.

"No, thanks. I'm sick of both of you now, so it's time for me to leave."

"No," John and Sherlock said in unison. Lestrade could hear them whispering on the other side of the room, but couldn't make out what they were saying.

"You've lost, Lestrade, so you must pay a price," said Sherlock.

"Fine, then, children. Just let me out of these cuffs and take this damn blindfold off, and you two go at it." Lestrade tried to stand, but his twisted arms cuffed behind him made it awkward. John (Lestrade was pretty sure) helped him to a standing position.

In a moment, Lestrade felt someone pushing his shirt up in back, past his cuffed wrists, baring his spine. And he felt teeth scraping and a tongue licking at his shoulderblades. His knees felt wobbly--as though they might collapse at any minute--but he was not about to give in to what he knew these two imbeciles had in mind.

"John, is that you? I don't want to play this game anymore. So stop it."

"Yes, it's me," said John, continuing with his licking and blowing cool air across Lestrade's sweaty skin. At any other time, Lestrade would have responded enthusiastically to that feeling. Not now.

"Correct. Five out of eleven," said Sherlock, laughing.

Lestrade then heard shallow breathing in front of him--and smelled John's shampoo--and felt long, slim fingers reaching to unbutton his shirt, then unbuckle his belt and unzip his trousers.

"Sherlock. Stop."

"Correct. Six out of twelve," said Sherlock.

"I told you both, I am not doing this," protested Lestrade, with a voice that was a bit ragged and rasping now.

Lestrade could feel John's warm hands slipping under the back waistbands of his trousers and boxers and caressing his bum, before sliding the trousers and boxers down to his ankles, and scraping a fingernail up his spine, causing Lestrade to inhale sharply.

And now Lestrade could feel Sherlock's hot, moist breath on his neck, his chest, his stomach. He knew Sherlock was not one for kissing, so the idiot was obviously going to just breathe all over him. Just another bloody annoying . . . _Ah. Fuck_. _Yes_. And obviously Sherlock was going to do something else now as well.

Lestrade felt dizzy with a mix of thrumming desire and mounting fury at being tricked into this little orgy.

Part of Lestrade (yes, of course, that part) wanted to let go, just sink down to the floor and just give in to whatever debauchery these two sods had in mind. But part of him resisted. He'd be damned if Sherlock would win this contest too. Lestrade couldn't bring himself to address the man who was now licking figure eights along the inside of his thigh and forcing Lestrade to work to stifle a moan. But Lestrade thought he could appeal to John, as his ally, one more time.

"John, you _know_ I can't do this. I can't watch you and Sherlock . . ." Lestrade's voice was desperate and low.

John reached around to caress Lestrade's neck and whispered in his ear. "That, Greg, is what the blindfold is for. So you don't have to watch." And John brought his hands up to knead Lestrade's neck and reached around to kiss him full on the mouth, sliding his tongue deep into his throat.

"Okay?" asked John.

Lestrade twisted toward John to kiss him harder, his heart now racing and his breathing shallow and fast, letting desire take control of his body. "If this is what you want.‚"

John pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the handcuffs, rubbing and kissing Lestrade's wrists gently for a moment, before pulling him to the floor, where Sherlock was already sprawled naked and waiting. Lestrade sat motionless. His head ached and his stomach knotted as he listened to Sherlock undressing and fondling John.

Lestrade could smell John's shampoo on both of them, but with each touch he could easily tell whether this was John's knee or Sherlock's shoulder, John's lips or Sherlock's tongue.

But sometimes--as Lestrade had feared--it was hard to know who was moaning or sighing, who was asking for more and harder, and whom they were asking. Lestrade could have pulled his blindfold off at any time, but he didn't want to. This way, Lestrade thought, he could assume that it was always _his_ touch John was asking for, reaching for.

Lestrade knew it was John's fingers and then John's cock inside him, but he heard Sherlock's voice and felt Sherlock's arms at the same time. At one point, Lestrade suspected one kiss planted on his chest was from Sherlock. A moment later Lestrade felt himself stretching out to find Sherlock's lips, but drew back quickly, ashamed of his desire, before he found them.

In the midst of it all, still unable to see anything but black shadows filtering through the dark blue silk, Lestrade's orgasm was woven of tastes, smells, sounds, and sensations unlike anything he had experienced before. It seemed every molecule of his body was vibrating and burning in the dark. He had felt both John's and Sherlock's hands on him when he came.

Afterward, as John lay against Lestrade's chest and drifted to sleep, Lestrade heard Sherlock breathing somewhere nearby, maybe touching John possessively, he thought. But he wasn't sure.

And now Lestrade felt sick again. At sea. That was the right phrase, wasn't it? He felt adrift. And lonely. And without a clear sightline to help him reach the shore. He kept his blindfold on until morning, because taking it off, he knew, would not make things any clearer.

 


	3. John and Sherlock; Lestrade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _John chooses Sherlock._

 

****

_Hi G,  
Let **'** s meet for lunch?  
We should talk._

_Haven't seen you in two weeks._

_JW_

 

 

_Greg,_

_Sorry things got so messed up.  
All my fault._ _Truly sorry._

_Miss you._

_We both do._

_Talk?  
JW_

 

_Lestrade--_

_John says I should apologize.  
SH_

 

_  
G,_

_Mrs. Hudson misses you too.  
Threatening to chuck us out if you don't come and visit her.  
JW_

 

 

_Lestrade--_

_I cannot work with Gregson.  
Stop sending him to work with me.  
SH_

 

_Inspector--  
_

__

_I will not work with Gregson or Dimmock.  
Will. Not.  
SH_

 

 

_Lestrade--  
_

__

_You need me.  
SH_

__

 

_  
L--_

_John says I should leave you alone.  
He is highly intelligent.  
Unlike you.  
  
SH_

_  
_

__

_He doesn't understand._

_He doesn't remember.  
_

_Everything._

_Unlike you.  
SH_

__

 

 

Greg,

_Glad to hear you visited Mrs. H.  
She was over the moon._

_Come upstairs next time.  
JW_

 

 

_Lestrade--  
_

__

_Gregson is mentally defective.  
Worse than you.  
SH_

 

_  
Lestrade--_

_If I say I'm sorry will you kill Gregson?  
SH_

 

 

_Sorry for what?  
GL_

 

 

__

_Not being a good man.  
Then and now.  
SH_

 

_  
_

_Stick with John.  
Maybe someday you will be.  
GL_

 

 

_Sherlock--_

_Murder-Suicide. Brixton again.  
Will you come?  
GL_

 

 

_Feels like Christmas.  
SH_

__

_  
_

 

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  _There's a backstory in my head about what went on between G and S in the past, and how the relationship with John is repeating a pattern, but think it's probably better to leave that unwritten._   
> 


End file.
